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A Secret To Tell You
Roz Denny Fox
It all started with a packet of letters found by a woman named April Trent.From the moment April uncovers the love letters inside the walls of a historic Virginia home, she's sure they tell a fascinating story. Faded and seemingly forgotten, the letters lead April to society matriarch Norma Marsh Santini–and her grandson Quinn.Norma knows it's finally time to reveal the truth about her experiences as a World War II spy–and her secret love affair with a man now dead. But the past has a way of reaching into the present, and soon the very basis of Quinn's life comes into question. Only April can help him see that sometimes things aren't quite what they seem– and that love can be strong enough to survive anything.
A Secret to Tell You
Roz Denny Fox
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Dust flew everywhere as April Trent’s circular saw bit into the lath and plaster wall of the sixty-year-old Shenandoah Valley farmhouse she was remodeling. Seeing a flash of red and white in what should be empty space, she shut off her saw and set it down on the floor. Then she carefully pulled free a ragged chunk of wall. April shoved her safety glasses into her hair so she could clearly see the item wedged between two-by-four-inch studs.
Since being awarded her contractor’s license at twenty-four, this was the sixth Virginia home between Harrisburg and Staunton that she’d purchased and renovated. She always lived in the houses she was renovating; and had managed to accumulate a tidy nest egg. At thirty-one, she was a woman of independent means. Her first project she’d bought with a trust fund left by her paternal grandmother, Dixie. Early on, she’d struggled to be taken seriously in a largely male-dominated field. Now things were going well. No thanks, though, to her prominent family who, outside of her grandmother, saw her interest as merely an aberrant whim that would pass. Rather than being happy for her and wishing her well, they considered her an embarrassment. Especially her Dad and her brothers….
April plucked out a dusty, rectangular package wrapped in red-and-white checked oilcloth. Bits of fabric, brittle with age, broke off, even though she took care lifting it out. Her pulse beat faster. Generally all she found was crumbling grout, cobwebs or the skeletal remains of long-dead mice.
Coleman Trent, her lawyer daddy, might not be so quick to denigrate her profession if she found a cache of stolen money.
Excited, April carried her treasure around the plastic sheeting that cordoned off the kitchen, one of the rooms she’d completed. A corner nook near the window offered better lighting, and she identified the wrapping as oilcloth of a type used to line kitchen cupboards at the time this home was built. Twine holding the covering in place snapped easily.
Darn! Not money. Letters, bound together with a red satin ribbon. Letters addressed in precise script to a woman named Norma Marsh, at an address in France.
On a self-imposed timetable to complete the house but tempted nevertheless, April couldn’t resist tugging open the bow. She eased the top letter out of its envelope. The ink was faded and the handwriting looked like that of a man. Yes, it was signed Erge ben, Heinz. April was disappointed when she realized none of the letters were in English. No, they’d been written in German. She’d taken a smattering of college French and high school German, and from the little she could translate, it appeared Heinz was devoted to Norma.
April couldn’t help a poignant sigh as she refolded the letter. She’d love to pour a cup of coffee and take a break, try to decipher what—judging by the salutation—were obviously old love letters. But she needed to get that wall down and cleaned up, since she had carpet-layers scheduled the following week. Although she did most of the work alone, a few tasks she subcontracted out on an as-needed basis.
Leaving the letters, she returned to the dirty job at hand. By one o’clock she was exhausted. But the wall was down. Only the promise of coffee and a closer inspection of the letters gave her the final burst of energy she needed to dispose of debris and sweep up.
She was pleased with her morning’s work. Ripping out the wall had resulted in a lovely, large open room with a brick fireplace at one end. Homes built in the thirties and forties tended to have small, dark rooms. April liked open and airy.
Filthy, she should head straight for the spanking new shower she’d already added to the refitted bathroom. But coffee enticed, as did those letters.
April filled a mug with the coffee she’d brewed at breakfast and reheated it in the microwave. She’d learned to take her coffee black and strong. She carried it impatiently to the nook and removed the oilcloth around the letters. When she did, a passport fell out and so did a couple of grainy black-and-white snapshots and a pressed flower, a rose. Hesitantly April opened the old passport. A beautiful young woman with long blond hair styled in a manner reminiscent of 1940s movies, stared out. The well-traveled document had been stamped numerous times with dates ranging from the early- to mid-forties. London. Rome. Paris and other cities in France. April sipped the bitter coffee, and let her mind wander. Norma Marsh must have been a debutante. April was familiar with that lavish lifestyle, since her mother, Bonnie, was from a wealthy local family who still believed the best schools were abroad.
Feeling too much like a voyeur, April tucked the photographs into the passport without examining them and put back the fragile rose. These love letters belonged to a stranger. But she had to wonder how they’d come to be stuck between the walls. Was it accidental, or were they hidden on purpose? Who was Norma Marsh? Born in 1925, she’d be eighty-two now. Was she even alive? And if she was, would she want the letters back? So many possibilities ran through April’s mind.
Her doorbell chimed unexpectedly, startling her. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and the mysterious letters made her feel oddly vulnerable. Wiping nervous palms down her jeans, she tiptoed quietly to the arch. Through her large front window, she saw Eric Lathrop huddled on her front stoop. His topcoat sparkled silver from a light August rain that had begun to fall in the last half hour.
Eric was an eager-beaver reporter who wrote about politics for the local Turner County newspaper. His long-term sights were set on moving out of Virginia into the big-time D.C. political arena. Her family’s law firm, Trent and Trent, dabbled in local politics, which was how Eric had gained the attention of April’s parents and brothers.
Apolitical though she tried to be, she sporadically dated Eric to keep her parents from coming up with worse prospects. In truth, she had zero time for a real relationship. And Eric was pleasant enough. He was at least capable of interesting conversation, although at times April found him overbearing.
She gave a passing thought to dashing back to hide her recent discovery, even if it meant leaving Eric standing in the rain. His brashness meant he didn’t have much interest in what he called sentimentality—anything to do with emotion, in other words—and April felt oddly protective of these letters. Another part of her, though, longed to share her find with someone—anyone. That impulse won, and she crossed the room and threw open the door.
“What took you so long?” Eric stomped in, shaking raindrops from his buzz-cut sandy red hair. He left muddy footprints behind him.
His surly greeting killed whatever enthusiasm April had mustered for sharing her news. “I’m working,” she said, waving a hand toward the enlarged living space.
“So I see.” He grimaced at her dusty work boots and smudged safety goggles pushed back in April’s short, dark hair.
“To what do I owe this unscheduled visit?” she asked in an affected Southern drawl. She could count on sweet sarcasm annoying the hell out of Eric.
Today, however, he apparently had other things on his mind. “I ran into your brother Miles in town. Had lunch with him. Don’t ask me how, but he cadged two invitations to a black-tie fund-raiser. A ball being held by Quinn Santini a week from next Saturday.”
“Santini. The name’s familiar.”
“Good grief, I should hope so! Quinn’s running for the U.S. Senate. My paper opposes him, and his picture’s been splashed all over the front page for months. You’ve probably heard your family talking about him, as well. They’re against his election, too.”
Eric pulled two gilt-edged tickets from his inner pocket and fanned them under April’s nose. “I came here straightaway. If you don’t own a suitable dress, something long and slinky, you’ll need to buy one. This is a big, big deal, and could be important for me.”
“Why would I spend a fortune on a dress I’d wear once, Eric? You know I hate getting even semi-dressed up for the parties my folks throw.”
“Yes, but think of the connections you could make at an event like this. You said that in your trade you need social contacts to get your name out through word of mouth.”
“It helps,” she agreed grudgingly, shutting the door as Eric returned the tickets to his pocket.
“Is that coffee I smell? I could do with a warm-up.” Skirting April, he shrugged out of his topcoat and headed for her kitchen. “Hey, what’s this?” he asked, weaving around the plastic to drop his coat over a chair next to the stack of letters.
“Something I found in the wall I removed today. Letters, but they’re written in German.” She hastily poured a mug of coffee and heated it in the microwave.
Before she could place the mug in Eric’s hands, he was pawing through the letters. A couple of papers tucked between the last two envelopes floated to the floor. Setting his mug down with a thump, April bent and retrieved the pages. “Well, these make no sense. They’re lists of words that aren’t really words in English or German, as far as I can tell. More like scrambled groups of letters.”
Eric tasted the coffee, made a face, then leaned over her shoulder. “Huh? Two words are spelled out—they’re bird names. See, it says Oriole at the top and Kestrel at the bottom.”
“Yes. The second page has Kestrel at the top and Oriole at the bottom.” Refolding them, April shoved those sheets into the top envelope. “Maybe they’re anagrams.”
“Or coded messages.” Squinting at the envelopes, Eric grew more animated. “April, who had this farmhouse built?”
“I bought it from the heirs of Dr. David Shuman.”
“Yes,” he snapped. “But after you researched the deed, I distinctly remember you saying this house originally belonged to Anthony Santini. No wonder the name’s familiar! Tony’s grandson is Quinn, who’s the senatorial candidate. April, what rock have you been under?” Eric demanded when she casually retied the ribbon around the letters and tucked the flattened rose underneath it. He tried to take the bundle, but she yanked it away and walked out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going? April, let me read them.” His voice rose. “Have you asked yourself why a bunch of old letters would be hidden in a wall? What if old man Santini was carrying on some tawdry affair? With some German, yet—during the war?” Eric set down his mug and followed April. “Listen, if I don’t find anything juicy, I’ll give the damned letters back to you. But if I link Grandpa Santini to something sordid, this could be my lucky break. My ticket to the beltway.”
She continued down the hall, but called over her shoulder, “Eric, honestly, you’re always seeing the next big story in everything you do. These are private letters. I didn’t see the name Santini anywhere. And if they were my love letters, I wouldn’t want them made public. I’m putting them in my bedroom. Then I’m going in to shower. Please let yourself out.”
Eric’s forward momentum was stopped when April shut her bedroom door. He rattled the knob, found the door locked and pounded with a fist. Then he resorted to cajoling. “You could be holding dynamite, sweetheart. Tony Santini built this farm, but he spent a lot of time in Europe before and after World War Two. I’ve even read stories that hint he could’ve been a spy. April? Dammit, are you listening?”
She didn’t respond, and thankfully, after a few minutes of shouting, Eric gave up. She heard him say, “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back when you’ve had time to think this through.”
What did he mean? She had thought it through. But Eric was blind to everything except his career. And he had a temper. She was glad he’d gone with so little fuss.
She didn’t dally over cleaning up. She’d observed Eric on the trail of a story. He was like a bulldog. He’d try to get his hands on the letters.
After toweling her hair dry, April grabbed the letters and dashed through the drizzle to her pickup. Someone as astute about the political scene as Eric, but who April trusted more, was her old college roommate, decorator Robyn Parker. Unlike April, Robyn enjoyed the local social scene. She traveled in prominent circles from Virginia to Maryland to D.C. And had the lowdown on everyone of importance. She also could keep a secret.
Twenty minutes later, April burst into Robyn’s fabric-cluttered shop, relieved to find her friend alone in her office.
“Did we have an appointment? If so, I doubled up,” Robyn said. “I’m on my way to see Mrs. Mason Hightower.” The pretty redhead fumbled for her Blackberry and punched up her date calendar.
“I only need a minute, Robyn. I made this discovery out at the farm.” Talking as fast as she could, April filled her in on what Eric said.
“Wow! Much as I hate to agree with that know-it-all Eric Lathrop on anything, the Norma Marsh in those letters must be Quinn Santini’s grandmother. She’s pretty much a recluse and has been for years. Her hubby, Anthony, was some kind of government diplomat who put them on the social register. He died quite a while ago. I sure wasn’t aware he’d once owned your farmhouse. That’ll be a boon when it comes to selling it. Especially if Quinn wins the election.”
“I’d forgotten Santini was the original owner until Eric reminded me. He remembered the name from when I researched the deed. It’s true that the history of a house in this area does add to its salability,” she added slowly.
“You’ve also got the family tragedy,” Robyn said as she tossed fabric in a briefcase.
“Tragedy?” April glanced up.
“Yes. Anthony’s son, Brett, Brett’s wife and Quinn’s wife all died in a small plane accident four years ago. Brett was the pilot. It was headline news, and it’s surfaced again with Quinn’s campaign. If you ever got your head out of the sawdust bin, you’d know these things, April. I’ve heard that his grandmother babysits Quinn’s daughter. They live on adjoining estates.” Robyn rattled off the name of the most exclusive development in their county. “Now, he’s a man to drool over, my friend. But you probably don’t realize that Quinn’s considered Turner County’s most eligible bachelor. A host of women we know would love to become the second Mrs. Quinn Santini.”
April shrugged. “Let them. I’m not interested in his type, Robyn.”
“Well, I am. Quinn Santini’s so ho…ot,” she drawled, fanning herself with one hand. “He creates tons of talk around the watering holes. Mostly because he’s not photographed with models and bimbos. Ask your dad or brothers about Quinn. He’s a lawyer-turned-politician. If I recall, last year he beat your dad’s firm on some big case. River pollution or something.”
“Eric said Dad’s firm is backing Santini’s opponent, and that would explain why. Dad hates to lose. Anyway, I doubt that these letters are political. They look like love letters to me. If Mrs. Santini loved some guy before she married Anthony, that shouldn’t be exploited.” April’s brow furrowed. “It’s—the letters aren’t in English. I wish I had time to translate a few of them properly. Then I could decide if I should go see the woman and ask if she wants them back, or would she rather I tossed them in the trash?”
Robyn checked her watch. “Yikes, gotta run, sweetie. You’re welcome to stay and pore over them here. I’ll leave my safe open so you can lock them up until you decide. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Santini’s name is Norma. And if her husband built the house, well…it does suggest they could belong to Quinn’s grandmother.”
April rose on tiptoes to hug her taller friend. “Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I’m going to do with the letters. I can’t waste a lot of time on them, though. I want to finish the farmhouse and get it on the market before Thanksgiving. I’ve had good luck selling houses over various holidays, thanks to your terrific decorating ideas.”
“Yeah, well, all this hoopla over the senate race will blow over.”
“Hmm. I may just cast my vote for Santini just to spite my family and Eric. But, honestly, isn’t one politician as corrupt as the next?”
“Quinn gets my vote because he’s yummy. Matter of fact, if you get cozy with his grandmother, I wouldn’t turn down a face-to-face introduction to him.” April laughed as Robyn grinned, hefting her case of samples, and sprinted for the door.
But her laughter died when she opened a letter and tried to read it. Her German was rusty. The words she was able to translate left gaping holes and sentences that made no sense.
Her frustration mounted once she determined all the letters were in German. She finally resorted to studying the photos stuck in the back of the passport. There was no doubt that the young woman cuddled up to the handsome man in the first snapshot was the Norma who owned the passport. Oooh—but the uniform her friend wore wasn’t that of an American soldier. German. An officer, no less.
Biting her lip, April flipped to the second picture. Norma Marsh appeared distressed. Possibly crying. A set of blunt-tipped fingers seemed to hold her back from the man—the German officer—in the previous picture. This time he was in civilian garb. All but the second man’s hand had been cropped. The handsome man who faced Norma looked…stunned, perhaps?
Her curiosity more than aroused, April flipped the snapshots over. The photo of the couple in happier circumstances said Heinz, my love. Colmar, France, 1944. The other said nothing.
Restoring the letters to the order in which she’d found them, April tucked them, plus the passport and flower, in a plastic bag and placed it in Robyn’s safe. She twirled the lock, feeling inexplicably unsettled and sad.
On the spur of the moment, she decided to dig into this now. Using her friend’s computer, April went through the archives of the social register and came up with a current address for Mrs. Anthony Santini. If the letters were hers, April reasoned she’d get this over and done with, and could stop worrying about what ifs.
In spite of rain and the late-afternoon snarl of traffic, April never tired of driving though the green hillsides in this part of Virginia. The Santinis lived in a community of older estates called Rolling Hills, all twenty or more acres apiece. Horse properties. Most were fenced and hooked up to surveillance systems.
She’d never had occasion to visit anyone here but she wasn’t surprised by the ornate wrought iron fencing that seemed to go on for miles. What did surprise her was finding the Santinis’ gate wide open. To give herself a chance to organize what she’d say, or maybe to insure that she could leave on her own terms, April parked outside the gate and walked up the winding drive. The house was spectacular, with columns, mullioned windows, dormers, all architectural features that attracted her. Stables off to the right were predictable. So was the four-car garage on the left, with a garret above, probably for staff. One bay of the garage was open and empty. Someone was gone, or else it housed the silver Lexus parked in the circular drive.
April glimpsed a second, slightly smaller residence set back behind the main house. She recalled Robyn’s saying Quinn and his grandmother shared the premises. She hesitated, wondering if she ought to veer off to the smaller abode. Wouldn’t a man of Quinn’s stature—a single father, at that—need the larger of the two quarters? Still, someone was home in the main dwelling; she might as well find out who.
Bringing up very private love letters with the woman to whom they might belong would be difficult enough, but April couldn’t picture herself explaining them to a man. A grandson, and a lawyer no less. She knew how lawyers’ minds worked. After all, she had two in her family. In the Trent household everything got hashed over, rehashed and talked to death.
She heard voices, so she mounted the steps. And since the Lexus sat in front, probably awaiting someone about to leave, she pressed the doorbell before she could change her mind.
April expected a butler or housekeeper. She was unprepared when a man in his midthirties—tall, blond, handsome and wearing, of all things, a designer tuxedo—yanked open the door.
For a moment they did nothing but stare at each other. In her old jeans, work boots and jean jacket, clean though they were, April knew she fell way short in the eyes of this man. Those blue eyes were so clear, so sharp, she imagined he not only found her wanting, but as she stammered out her name and asked for Norma Marsh, April sensed that he disapproved of everything about her.
“Trent?” The clipped question came with a scowl. “How did you get inside the gate? What’s your reason for barging in on us? This is private property.”
A woman materialized behind the man in the doorway. Her carriage was upright and her figure slender in spite of the fact that her hair was pure white and her face lined. Just as quickly, a sweet-faced child, a girl of five or six, slipped between the two adults. She gaped at April, as if seeing strangers at her door was an unusual occurrence. Which, considering April’s dubious welcome, it probably was. She threw back her shoulders and raised her chin. “I’m a contractor who bought an old farmhouse across town—in Heritage Acres. The original owner of record was Anthony Santini. I’m renovating and upgrading the home’s interior. Today I tore out a wall and discovered a packet of letters, uh, and a passport. They all bear the name Norma Marsh. A friend of mine said Norma’s the first name of the Mrs. Santini who lives here. So I came to find out if the letters—love letters, I believe—belong to her.”
The man let go of the door and walked outside. His presence forced April to take a step down toward the car. Rain spattered in her eyes, making her blink.
“Save your breath,” he said icily. “Tell Daniel Mattingly it’s a good try, but I won’t be bribed, nor will I cave in to any attempts at blackmail.”
“Who’s Daniel Mattingly?” April held up a hand to the rain. “All the letters are signed by a man named Heinz von Weisenbach.”
“Come on, Ms. Trent. It won’t fly, so give it a rest.” His beautiful lips curled and he advanced, forcing April down two more steps before the white-haired woman moved into the doorway and said in a low voice, “Quinn, stop. Invite her in. I need, ah, would like to hear more of what she has to say.”
The man came to a halt. “Gram?” He glanced from the woman below him to the one behind him.
